


The God of Spring

by spacemutineer



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Caretaking, Hallucinogens, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:55:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24791938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemutineer/pseuds/spacemutineer
Summary: Distantly in the back of his mind, Harold wondered if he was experiencing some kind of secondhand exposure to the drug and just imagining all of this. It was exquisite and terrifying, as fascinating as much as it was dangerous, this deep sea exploration to the bottom of John's heart. Fascinating, until they were both inevitably crushed by the weight.
Relationships: Harold Finch & John Reese, Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 11
Kudos: 91





	The God of Spring

Harold had gotten rather good at it by then, the fine art of discerning the progress of a fight by the kinetic sounds of John Reese's body at work, the sounds of his fists and elbows impacting flesh, his breath coming hard and fast, his sub-verbal vocalizations of effort and pain under intense struggle. The noise of the environment gave nearly as many signals, although they were less directly helpful. There was much to be told from the clanging of metal and the shattering of glass, but in those sounds it was often hard to tell what was success and what was setback. 

Being good at discerning the detail, being used to it, meant nothing however in dulling the visceral human anxiety produced by listening to a man fighting for his life in brutal hand-to-hand combat against a known murderer. 

"Mr. Reese?"

It was almost always wasted effort to prod him for information in the midst of an altercation. Somehow Harold's brain never quite seemed to absorb that fact. Usually one recitation of his name was enough to make Harold reassert his logic and handle what he could to help or at the very least stay out of Reese's way and let him do his end of the business. 

Patience was usually all that was needed in the end. John was very good at his job. 

And indeed, there was yet another sound Harold recognized and depended upon: the dull thud of one more of John's opponents collapsing or just as likely being thrown to the ground in defeat.

"Here, Finch," he said, somewhat out of breath but otherwise seeming no worse for wear. "Griffin is down for the count." He raised his voice. "Danny? You all right? You can come out now."

Harold listened to distant rustling as their enterprising young number emerged from wherever John had stashed him, probably a closet or cabinet. And then, incongruously, he heard the sound of a faucet running. 

"Geez, he's not dead, is he?" Danny asked. "What are you, like a commando or something?"

John ignored the questions as he often did. "What's with the papers on the rack, Danny? Why are they wet?" 

"Those are fresh sheets of Pixel. They're drying so they can be cut. Griffin didn't touch them, did he?"

"He knocked me back and I put my hand down on them for a second. It tingles. Does this stuff wash off?"

The teenager laughed in surprise. "You put your whole hand down on the sheets? Nice. You're going for a ride, my guy."

_A ride._

That was the instant Harold knew they were in terrible trouble. This kid would be a gifted scientist one day, that day being when he grew out of his immaturity and finished college instead of wasting his talents developing new psychoactive drugs for dorm room parties and attracting the attention of professional designer drug manufacturers who valued his formulae much higher than his life.

"The good news is, you're fine. I took almost the amount you just got once when I was testing it and I wasn't sure about the potency. I'm like half your size and I rode it out okay. It's really good stuff, makes you creative, loose. The art school kids pay top dollar when it's time to finish their portfolios. Not that high a dose, though. Those sheets get cut into quarter inch tabs. Pixels, right? Jacob came up with that one."

"Yeah, fantastic. So what does it do at high doses?"

"Same thing. But... it also makes you kind of wild too. It's a stimulant, so you'll run hot on a lot more than just creativity. I apparently took off all my clothes and jumped in the fountain out front to cool off. And I guess I punched J in the face when he tried to pull me out. Gave him a black eye, but he laughed through the whole thing. You should see the video he got before I passed out. I was dancing in the water, and like, really well! Professional grade _real dancing_. Ballet! My mom put me in lessons when I was seven, but who knew all that stuff was still in there? Pixel did, and that's why it's great."

"Didn't we just have a whole conversation about how you were going to stop making these drugs and destroy your stock so you don't end up in prison or a pine box?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'll miss this one, though. Probably the best shit I ever made. It's the world's loss, really."

"How long does it last? What else should I expect?"

"Look, you're gonna be fine, man. You've got about four hours of a spin through your own head once it hits. It's a short half-life, which was actually pretty great because it meant people bought more. I mean... sorry. Just get somewhere you can crash and try to stay cool. What's your art? You paint or draw or something? Give it a try. As long as you don't flip out or anything, you might just do something amazing."

Oh, to be so young and obliviously immortal. John's voice was clipped with the boy after that, business-like. He did not respond to any of Harold's increasingly insistent inquiries until the situation was fully secured and their number safe. In the meantime, Harold lined up logistics, his end of the bargain.

"There's an emergency room at Bellwood, John. It's three blocks north. Your cover is clean. Go."

"You heard what Danny said."

"Was I supposed to care? He's _nineteen_. However brilliant a chemist he may be, he's no doctor and he's certainly no judge of risk. Were you at nineteen?" There was no answer, only the sound of brisk footsteps on sidewalk concrete. "No, you're not even now. Mr. Reese? Mr. Reese, answer me."

"I hear you, Finch." 

"You may hear me, but you clearly aren't listening. I can see you on the GPS. You're moving south, not north. What are you doing?" 

Harold asked the question, but it was clear now what John was doing and exactly where he was going. There was only one logical location to the south. But no, that wasn't right either. Logical would have meant being properly cautious and seeking medical attention. What John was doing was the opposite of logical.

He was heading back to the library.

Harold went down to meet him in the entryway with his keys in his hand. John was habitually careless with his life, but casually dismissing a major drug overdose was a new depth of negligence. The instant he opened the door, Harold stepped up to face him. 

"I told you not to come back here. This is entirely reckless and unacceptable. Come on, I'm driving you to the hospital."

But John didn't even stop to address him, blowing straight past him to disappear beyond the stacks. It took Harold a few extra seconds to mount the stairs again in pursuit only to discover John elbow deep into the drawer of one of the large wooden cabinets.

"What are you doing? You need a doctor, Mr. Reese. Whatever you're looking for in there is not professional medical expertise, so it's a waste of your time. We are not equipped for this."

From somewhere in the back of the drawer John produced a fat bundle of long thin plastic strands.

"We have zip ties and a relatively comfortable chair in a quiet, isolated space. We have everything we need." 

"You cannot be suggesting what that implies."

"I'm going for a trip, not dying, Finch. But I can't... I don't know what I'll do, what it's going to be like. I won't be in my right mind and I'm not... It could be dangerous, all right? I could be." 

"Dangerous, yes, I agree. Your condition is quite dangerous. Now let's stop being ridiculous and actually address it."

John stuffed the rubber-banded bunch of white zip ties into Harold's hands and tugged at his elbow, leading him into the reading room with one hand while unbuttoning his shirt with the other.

"Come on, Harold, you have to help. I can't do this myself."

Before Harold could offer more than perfunctory protest, John began stripping down to his soft underclothes, a t-shirt and boxer briefs, tossing anything on him sharp or useful into a pile well out of his reach in the corner of the room. For such an imposing man, he seemed smaller and more delicate when he turned around. 

"I don't want to hurt anyone, Finch. I need you to help me so I know I won't."

"You'll be hurting yourself, does that not count?"

It never did, not to him. John went back to work, pulling an old wood and metal chair from the library's heyday in front of one of the heavy card catalogs. A few zip ties later and it was secured tight. It would take three men to budge it. 

One man sat in the seat and put his arms up onto the rests. 

"All right," John said. "Your turn."

For the first moment since he'd arrived, Reese was not in a flurry of motion. He looked up, imploring with his bright, fevered eyes.

Harold scoffed. "No."

"You have to help me, Finch. Danny gave his friend a black eye. Can you imagine what I could do to you?"

"You _won't_."

"You don't know that. Neither of us can know that. We have to plan as if I will."

"We have to plan for what we know to be true, that you are about to become very disoriented and potentially ill. Restraining you like a captive is only going to make a bad situation worse."

"Harold, I can feel it kicking in. I don't know what's going to happen now. Please, I don't want to be afraid of it."

And that was precisely what he was, sitting there in his underwear, a powerful man looking fragile and exposed. He was afraid. He wasn't the only one. This was a profoundly bad idea, but the argument against it was futile. If Harold refused, John would only come up with another desperate plan even more ill-conceived than this one and somehow twice as dangerous. And he might get away from Harold and any rational assistance to attempt it.

"I am doing this under protest. I want that known."

"Duly noted. And thank you."

He was anything but welcome. 

Harold had never fastened a person to a chair before that moment and halfway through made a firm promise to himself that he would never do so again. At least not this person. Reese gave him detailed instructions and insisted on multiple zip ties for each of his limbs. It was needlessly excessive and it left Harold almost sick to his stomach as he worked. It felt like strapping an eager man into an electric chair. John's skin was hot to the touch.

Finished, Harold rose while John tested his bonds, jostling in his chair what little he could. Once confident it held him securely, he took a calmer breath.

"That's better. Now go get your things. You can come find me in the morning, I'll be here."

"What? _The morning_? Are you joking? You made me do all of this and now you expect me to leave you alone here all night too? What will you ask me to do next, duct tape a plastic bag over your head before I leave? Maybe I can douse you in kerosene and throw some matches. That'll keep you from hurting anyone. John, you are overdosing and strapped to a chair. You just made me _strap you to a chair_."

"And you did a fine job of it too. I can't move, I can't hurt anyone or anything, not even myself. If you go now, no one will even hear whatever garbage I might say, so I won't hurt anything that way either."

"And no one will hear you screaming if the building catches fire. Mr. Reese, would you voluntarily leave me alone for hours on end while bound and helpless, even if I wasn't heavily dosed on a teenager's chemistry experiment?"

"That is a very different scenario for a lot of reasons and you know that."

"No. The answer is obviously no. You wouldn't, and I won't. So stop talking, at least about something so stupid. You're welcome to tell me how you're feeling or if you need something. For now, I'll bring you some water."

"I'm not going to die of dehydration overnight, Harold."

Harold laid his hand across John's forehead to confirm what he already knew. Reese looked up at him but made no effort to resist.

"Given you're doused in enough sweat already that I had to almost cut into your skin to hold you in those ties, I wouldn't necessarily rule it out." 

At his wrist beside one of the three straps immobilizing his arm, John's pulse felt quick and heavy. Harold frowned and left for the water. Even those few minutes away from keeping an eye on him were unnerving. It was stressful to watch the man walk into a gunfight but at least Harold trusted his judgement in those situations. Not so here.

As quickly as he could manage, Harold returned with a pitcher so cold it was already covered in condensation. Into John's glass he dropped a drinking straw.

"You're lucky we had one left over from your last visit to Thighs and Fries."

"Ooh, and it's bendy too. Fancy," John said with a slight smile, trying to soften his reluctant captor's scowl.

Harold sighed and took his seat on the couch nearby after John took a long assisted drink. As insane as all this was, the man seemed well enough, at least so far. He would have to be. They were doing this idiot thing. There was no going back now. All there was left was time, time to wait, time to settle in for the duration. Harold shifted himself snug on the couch.

"So, what are you getting out of it yet? Anything good?"

John's eyes sparkled with surprised amusement.

"Why, Harold, you almost sound like you're speaking from experience. Experience you enjoyed."

"I believe most people are aware that intoxicants have the potential to be enjoyable, Mr. Reese. Although I will admit that lashing oneself to the mast to endure the voyage is a new one for me."

"Well, you probably weren't ever trying to get through a trip in your boss' office."

"Assuming my knowledge is firsthand is inferring context not established in evidence. And it depends. Does a university dean count as a boss?"

John burst into laughter that rang through the room and Harold couldn't help a pleased smile of his own that broke his pristine deadpan. There was a certain sensation of accomplishment in the sound. His task tonight was to be an emcee and a sounding board, to keep his companion calm and the atmosphere light. It seemed to be working.

"You know, I felt amped up earlier, twitchy almost from the second I put my hand down on that paper. But now that I'm settled, this is kind of nice in a way. I can see why people like this stuff. Everything feels... dreamy."

"Only you could be enchanted by the dream of being tied to a chair, Mr. Reese. What would make you more comfortable? Should I turn down the lights? Put on an Allman Brothers album? I confess my psychedelic chaperoning skills may be a bit out of date."

Harold's memory drew him back to another night of dreams, when Nathan lay sprawled across their dorm room couch with his feet up in Harold's lap and his hands animated above him, rambling on about how the song playing on the radio was the color teal and how data compression for optical drives was the future of music. One of those things would eventually make the two of them over half a billion dollars. But that night Nathan was enthusiastic mostly for the other. He always loved anything teal.

That evening was simple to keep relaxed. This reverse hostage situation was going to be much more difficult.

John laughed again. "Thanks, but I think I'll pass." His grin melted away gradually and he put his head back. "Yeah, definitely glad I'm sitting. Getting a little lightheaded here."

"I really don't like this, John. If you have a bad reaction to this drug, what am I supposed to do? It's not like I can carry you down to the car in a chair."

In his pocket, Harold rolled the small folding knife he'd stashed away and tried to estimate how long it would take to extricate John from all of this without also cutting him to shreds. Longer than it would need to be was the clear answer. John let his eyes fall shut, trying to breathe slowly.

"You can't carry me down to the car in any case. I weigh a ton. Look, there's nothing to do. This thing just has to run its course. Danny said four hours."

"He also said it was a stimulant. I know you're feeling it. We may have some concept of how long this is going to last, but we have no idea at all of how long you can last with it like this."

"Yes, we do," he said, eyes still closed. "You know my records, Finch. I've gone months kept in a lot worse condition than this. I've spent a whole week tied to a chair. I think I can manage four hours."

That was entirely unsoothing. The things John must have been thinking about as he sat there restrained, the memories...

"We need to keep you cool. Give me a minute," Harold said as if John had any other option.

They were not well equipped here in the library, but at least they had restored the bathroom to decent condition. As a former public restroom, it afforded them a nice amount of space and flexibility. They even installed a shower in one corner given that John had a strong tendency to be sweaty or bloody or otherwise filth-encrusted on returning from the field. Harold had come to appreciate it too, as it eased his days-long stints at his post during complex or tech-heavy numbers. He could exercise to keep himself limber enough to work without feeling disgustingly grimy afterward and he could wash up enough to lie down on one of their cots for a few hours if he could squeeze in the time. In many ways, it was one of his more profitable investments in this venture.

The first on that list was humming to himself in his seat as Harold left to gather up several specimens of their mismatched collection of towels and dump them under a faucet. The gentle song drowned in the sink along with the terrycloth. 

When Harold returned, he draped two towels across John's shoulders and a third he folded to wipe his face. John leaned into the hand that held him steady and began softly humming again. The cool water clearly felt good to him with his heightened senses. At least he was getting some kind of enjoyment out of this mess. Harold tucked the towel behind John's head and squeezed it a little to allow a few drops to trickle down his back.

"You know, I could see you just now," Reese said as Harold settled back in on the couch. "With my eyes closed I could see everything you did with the water. I could hear it too, like there was a creek here running over rocks. There was birdsong in the trees. It was spring. I think you were spring."

"I'm sorry? I was... spring? The season?"

"You were. You are. I could feel it, your rain on my shoulders, your sun on my face. It felt cool but warm at the same time, the kind of warmth that melts frozen ground. The kind that lures green shoots from dead branches. It was spring, fresh growth and possibility. You are the god of spring. The god of second chances."

John opened his eyes wide, his pupils unnaturally dilated black.

"Oh, I just realized I was the person talking there. Wow, I, uh... I don't know who I thought that was, but that was, um..." His cheeks were flushed with fever and embarrassment. "Sorry, Finch. This is why I wanted you to leave."

"Really? This is why? That was remarkably flattering, Mr. Reese. If I recall correctly, you were in a band in high school, were you not? You must have written the songs."

Reese looked mortified, but Harold just waved the matter off with a light smile.

"Don't worry. You've seen me unintentionally heavily drugged before too. You were kind enough to be forgetful for me then, and I'll be glad to return the favor for you now. But you will have to forgive me if I can't help but be a little amused in the meantime. If you care to dream of me as various pagan deities until you come down from this, I can certainly think of worse things."

"So can I. I can't guarantee they won't still happen, Harold. I'm obviously not all here."

"Well, they haven't happened yet. As long as we can keep you from spontaneously combusting in that chair, I think we're doing all right. That's a good reminder. Here, drink some more water."

Several hours passed without incident. John talked with him intermittently but imaginatively about a range of scattered subjects that seemed to emerge from nowhere and then vanish just as inexplicably. When he was becoming confused as they spoke and frustrated for the confusion, Harold brought in a set of speakers to distract him. The setup was disappointing, of course, as all digital-only setups must be, but his good turntables were sitting across town, which might as well have been the moon. Obnoxiously low bitrate streaming had to suffice. They listened to some Lou Reed and Iggy Pop after John vetoed suggestions of Vivaldi and Puccini. 

Harold kept an eye on him and kept him drinking water and draped in fresh cool compresses until John fell quiet. His eyes slipped shut. For some time, he seemed to be sleeping, but when he finally did speak, it was clear he was dreaming while awake again. Or as awake as one could be on this drug.

"No, because you told me. You know exactly everything, every grain of sand in the glass," he said abruptly, continuing a conversation in his mind that Harold wasn't privy to, even if he was clearly supposed to be the other side of it. "What would you even ask me if you could? Any one question and I would have to answer honestly, but what could it even be? What don't you know?"

"I'm afraid truth or dare is not happening while you're high as a kite, John." Or frankly any other time, but Harold left that part aside.

"I've thought about it. Of course I have. What would I ask you if I could? One question. One answer."

"Mr. Reese, I think we're drifting away from shore here..."

John's eyes fluttered behind closed lids.

"For a long time, I thought I wanted to find where you were born, to learn where the rain came from when it fell. I thought knowing the cloud would mean knowing the storm. But how could it? What you are is here, now. The library and the books. The cracked glass and the list. What is a lost city to the conscience in my ear, the lantern that lights my path?"

The right thing to do here would have been to stop him. Harold wanted to stop him. Knew that he should. He fully intended to stop him, but despite all of that found himself too rapt to do much of anything beyond listen and watch. John's senses were bleeding into his speech. And he was talking about _him_.

"The same with your name. One lone bird among the flock, so many they conceal the sky. They flow and shift with the currents as they come, flying together on a hundred broken wings and a single unbroken will. How would knowing the first tell me anything about the many that followed, or the one they all are now, or the one they've always been inside? How would it change the force of the wind in their wake that swept me to my feet from my knees and now never stops pulling me forward?"

Distantly in the back of his mind, Harold wondered if he was experiencing some kind of secondhand exposure to the drug and just imagining all of this. It was exquisite and terrifying, as fascinating as much as it was dangerous, this deep sea exploration to the bottom of John's heart. Fascinating, until they were both inevitably crushed by the weight.

"Reese, I need you to open your eyes, all right? John?"

"What's left then? What actually matters? Anything? The snail already wears its death as a shell. There's no point in asking how you died. And who cares where the sun goes away to sleep when night is only an illusion anyway? It's always morning somewhere, and I know you're always at the other end of the line. Always, even when it's as dark as this, when I'm alone and getting cold. The frost is falling. I can feel it settling over me."

_As dark as this... alone and getting cold?_ The sweet dreamlike quality of his soliloquy was dissolving away, the tone of his voice sharpening. Harold stood and raised his voice in turn.

"You're not alone here. Come on, you have to open your eyes now. Look at me, Mr. Reese."

If he could hear him anymore, he gave no indication.

"Always. But it's only always for now, isn't it? For now, for now, for now. Everything's always for now. I do know what's left. It's the only thing that matters, and you can't even tell me if I ask. You don't know it yet. But you will. All leaves fall. Someday you will. There will come a time when you will decide and I will obey and there will only be winter. Only the ice, all I've ever known. It's still waiting for me. It still is me. It's always been me."

John's head lay back, rolling on his shoulders and the back of the chair. He shivered as he spoke to the empty air above him, his eyes crushed closed. Sweat rolled down his neck and John's t-shirt clung to his skin, damp on his chest that heaved with his short breath.

"Mr. Reese, please stop!"

Harold touched his arm, his skin hot and slick. John's fever had spiked since Harold last checked it and he knew he'd let this go on far too long. He tried to grasp the man's attention by grasping one of his shoulders, then both.

"John, listen to me. You're having a nightmare. We're in the library, we're safe here. You've got to open your eyes now."

But John just rolled his head against the chair back and forth and moaned, a pendulum of anguish. Harold gave up with his arms and reached for John's face with both hands to stop him if he wouldn't or couldn't stop himself. His cheeks were flushed, wet with sweat now mingling with a few escaped tears. It took real effort to hold his head still. The beat of his pulse was frantic against the side of Harold's palm.

"You are not alone! I'm standing right here with you. _John, please_. Open your eyes and look at me!"

Then at last he did and everything was worse. The spark of rational cognition was gone from John's eyes. His whole body trembled in the chair.

"I don't hold anyone like that anymore unless I'm going to kill them," he said in a voice deep and hollow like a chasm speaking. "Are you going to kill me, Finch? You could, you know. It doesn't take strength to snap a neck, just speed, the right angle, and _desire_."

Repulsed by the idea in every possible sense, Harold recoiled, tearing his hands away and stepping back. 

"I would _never_ do that to you or anyone else. _You know that_. John, you're drugged and you're feverish. I need you to calm down so we can help you. Do you understand?"

"But you won't put me out of my misery, will you? No, you'd rather make me wait and suffer for it. You always have your hands around my neck, Finch. We both know it's only a matter of time before you squeeze the life out of me. So do it. _Just do it!_ "

He snarled as he jerked against his restraints, the strips of white plastic cutting hard into his skin.

"Get it over with, Harold! Get it done!"

John was absolutely terrifying like this. This is why he had demanded to be bound. But all this vicious rage was based in fear. Would he have become this trapped feral animal if they hadn't treated him like one to start? If Harold hadn't agreed to treat him like one? They'd never know now.

He took a breath and tried to remain as calm as possible, to project calm to him.

"I'm going to go get something to help us, all right? Please don't try to move. You'll only hurt yourself more."

But John did not relent, still struggling against his bindings and shouting at him as he went.

"Not more than you will! No one can ever hurt me now more than you will!"

The shakiness of adrenaline hit Harold hard by the time he reached what served as their modest kitchen. He did what he could to steady himself as he filled the pitcher again with ice and water that rattled in his hand. This would either help John recover his senses or it would enrage him all the more. Either way, there was hope at least it might buy them some relief from the fever, however little, however fleeting.

In the reading room, John was waiting for him panting, his teeth bared. Harold came in quietly, holding the jug.

"You know what the sickest part is, Finch? You won't even know yourself until the time comes. It will just sit there waiting, an IED rigged between us. And one day, I'll trip the line. I could ask you right now and you'd try to claim it'll never happen, you'll never do it. I'd say you promised not to lie to me, but you never promised not to lie to yourself."

"John, I have to warn you that this is going to be startling, and I don't want to make you any more upset. This is not intended as punishment or abuse, but to be perfectly honest I don't know how else to help you quickly enough right now. This is what I have. I'm sorry."

And Harold poured the entire jug of water onto John, across his chest, over his head, and down his back. The man yelped and spasmed at first, an uncontrollable instinctual reaction. When it was done, he was left gasping, soaked. Harold dared to reach out a hand and brush back the hair now dripping directly into John's face. Reese blinked a few times more, but this time when he turned his eyes up to Harold, rational, thoughtful John was back behind them, as was his great relief – and even greater remorse.

"Harold? Oh, Christ." He groaned and hung his undoubtedly aching head. Water dripped off his hair, his shirt, and anything else it touched. Ice cubes were scattered everywhere. "You should have left when I told you to."

The sound of John's natural voice, weakened but unmistakable, knocked the wind out of Harold's lungs. He felt almost as breathless as John was.

"No, Mr. Reese. I'm quite glad someone was with you. That someone is still here with you."

Without him thrashing, it was possible again to actually check John's condition. Not that it took much examination to see the nasty abrasions on his skin where he'd tried to tear himself free. Those were alarming enough, but his pulse now hammering away at a clip north of 180 was significantly worse.

"Take a breath, John. We have to get your heart rate down. You can't keep going like this."

"Yeah, I'm, uh... pretty dizzy right now."

"I want to put you under some cold water in the shower and try to reduce your fever. It's not much of a solution, but it's better than the nothing we've got right now."

Reese shook his head then immediately looked like he regretted it. He must have been as queasy as he was lightheaded.

"After what I just said to you, what I did? No. You're not untying me. That's insane."

"I fail to see how you having a stroke strapped in this chair is a better outcome than releasing you and taking the chance you might get in my face and scream at me."

"I know what I did, Finch. I was there, I just... wasn't in the driver's seat. I tried to attack you. I wanted to get my hands on you."

"You didn't try to attack me. You may not have been rational, Mr. Reese, but I knew what you wanted. It was nothing more than masochism. You thought if you could get your hands on me, you could try to make me hurt you _for you_. Well, I'm never going to allow that, so I'm not afraid of it and I'm not afraid of you."

He knelt and brought the folding knife out of his pocket.

"Harold, don't do this. I can't know what I'll do. I don't know if I can control it. You say you're not afraid of me but you know you should be. Listen to me, damn it!"

The first of the zip ties came off with a snap as the blade pulled through it. The skin it left behind was bruised and raw.

"This was a mistake from the beginning. I should never have let you talk me into this madness."

Two more ties fell and the first of John's arms was free, banded by ugly red tears. As Harold moved to work on his other arm, John's awful trembling returned. He grabbed Harold's sleeve and held it so he couldn't continue.

"Put them back, Finch. Please, it's too dangerous. Do you have any idea what I could do to you right now?"

"Dangerous is letting you sit here and skirt a heart attack. John, it's all right. You can let me go."

And all at once something changed in him again. John was astonishingly quick, a predator in motion. He released Harold's sleeve, and in one move grabbed his wrist hard instead and turned it around to face the knife back toward Harold himself.

"Dangerous is getting this close to me with a weapon, Finch," he said in that low, cold voice. "You should know better than that by now. With one hand I could shatter every bone in your wrist and take this knife away from you."

Harold swallowed. John's face was hard to read, his expression blank. His grip at Harold's wrist was uncomfortably tight and twisting, but it was not yet enough to cause him pain.

"I suppose you could. You won't. We have work to do. Let go of me, Mr. Reese."

"You're not _listening_. Do you understand what I'm telling you? I could slice your carotid artery open before you could even tell me to stop. I could shove your hand with this blade back into your eye or your throat in less than a second and make you do the job for me instead. I don't even need your knife to kill you, Harold. The easiest thing to do would be to crush your trachea with the heel of my hand and watch you suffocate on the floor."

Pointed up at Harold's face, the fine edge of the blade shone in the light, both it and Harold's hand trembling along with John's. Harold tried not to look down at it, but only into John's eyes, wide and black, full of fear and fury.

"You've considered my hypothetical murder in some detail. Have you put any thought into what happens after it's done? Most of what you've described sounds like it would leave me in some length of painful and frightened suffering before I succumb. Would you stay with me, Mr. Reese? We both know you could easily escape with my knife and leave me here to die alone, but would you consider staying with me until I'm unconscious at least?"

For a split second, John's brow twitched.

"It won't make any difference. You'll be a corpse."

"And you will go on living. Will you keep helping our numbers here out of the library after you dispose of my body? They will still need you." 

"What do you think you're doing? Shut up and listen to me."

"I'm only working through the possibilities, just like you. How will you get rid of my body, John? Will you drag me down the stairs or haul me out cold and limp over your shoulder? Will you toss me into the trunk of your car or lay me down gently next to the spare tire? Where will you go then? To the river to sink me to the bottom? To Oyster Bay to bury me in a shallow grave? If I've lost my glasses by then, do you think you might close my eyes for me before you shovel me under the dirt? I realize it won't matter anymore, but I would appreciate it all the same."

"Stop. _Stop it._ "

"You first, Mr. Reese."

All the rage that had shadowed John's gaze was gone, leaving only immense sadness behind. He had lost. He was lost. In his amplified imagination, he had just experienced everything they discussed. Every action, every consequence he lived in his mind.

"Enough. Stop trying to threaten me with something I know very well you would never do."

At last, John released his grip and shrank back. Harold took a second to rub at his wrist, a bit stiff now from how firmly and near-injuriously it had been held. 

Near, but distinctly _not_. A careless person would have hurt him, even if only by accident in the moment. But John Reese was not careless with anything but himself. This had been a choice, the only one John would ever make, whether he realized that or not.

"We need to help each other now. You won't feel this agitated if we can ease the physical strain you're under."

John conceded in silence. When Harold finished cutting the ties, he stood to assess their task ahead. Even if this gambit worked, what then? He supposed they would fall off that bridge when they got there. If they got there. Beneath him, John said nothing, only watching him with those haunted dilated eyes.

"Do you think you can walk? Even if you don't, you're going to, so let's get you on your feet."

John stood or more accurately was half-lifted to stand. He wobbled there a moment, holding onto the chair back, listing to one side before he fully began to waver.

"No, Mr. Reese, you are not going to pass out right now, do you hear me?" Harold said as he maneuvered himself under John's arm to hold him upright, or as close to it as they could come. "If you absolutely must faint, you can do it in thirty feet on the floor of the shower. But you are coming that thirty feet first, understand? You are coming with me."

Once the most immediate risk passed, Harold led John forward. He was heavy on his shoulder, silent except for his shaky breathing. Harold focused entirely on each small step. His back screamed under the weight, but it was only a little further. They could get there.

By the time they did, they were both spent. John slid to the tiled floor along the wall and Harold dropped to his knees. He wasted no time cranking the cold tap hard over, dousing himself fully dressed as much as he did John in his underwear. When Harold's drenched and ruined jacket restricted his motion with its weight, he shrugged it off. It fell over to one side as a heavy wet pile.

John looked as much a heavy wet pile slumped on the shower floor half-naked and soaked to the bone. The initial shock of the water's chill on his skin wore off quickly and his eyes grew distant again, unfocused.

"Mr. Reese? Can you hear me?"

He didn't answer. Four or five minutes passed that felt like forever. At least John's pulse slowed to something approaching reasonable as his temperature finally came down. 

Harold pulled his splattered glasses up to rest on his head since they were useless now to see through. He watched a somewhat blurred John under the spray and tried to think of what options were left to them. Just under the noise of falling water, Harold could hear him mumbling. He leaned in to try and understand and John reached up to catch him by the front of his vest, wadding it in his fist.

"Harold. Turn it off. You're freezing."

His own temperature had not occurred to him until the moment John mentioned it. It took him by surprise to realize he was the only one of the two of them trembling now. The cold water might not have been precisely what was making his hands shake, but it certainly was not helping. The shower stopped, but Reese did not let him go. His voice was soft.

"When?"

"When are you going to come out on the other side of this? I don't know. Probably less than an hour or so if four is indeed the average. No matter what, this is definitely the back side of this thing, John. We can get through it."

"No, when? I need you to tell me when. I know you'll lie, but... do it anyway."

"Reese, we're just going to rest here a while, all right? I'm not leaving you."

John barked a choked, half-mad laugh at that, breathing faster again in short shuddering exhales. His grip twisted hard and Harold's vest constricted around his ribs.

"No, you never will. You won't need to. That's the hell of it."

Trying to ground him in the present, in the physical world and not in the mire of his mind, Harold wrapped his hands around John's fist at his chest. His fingers felt so cold.

"Don't let it take you where it's pulling you, John. Stay here with me."

"How long, Harold? _When?_ "

"Mr. Reese, listen to my voice and focus. We are dealing with your condition right now. You are not well, but you will be soon. I promise you this effect _will end_."

"Everything will," he said, and he stole his hand back to try to stand and leave.

Try, and fail. John's will was always even greater than the formidable body it was confined inside, but even it couldn't give him the strength and purchase to rise to his feet successfully. Straining, he scrambled for a hand hold to catch himself and finding nothing but a smooth tile wall, collapsed back to the ground. Exhausted and defeated by the effort, his head hung low enough that Harold could not see his face.

"You don't need to fight like this. I'm not leaving you, John. You're not leaving me."

For a long moment, he was quiet, only breathing, head down and swaying gently. His fingertips on the floor drew slow curves in the puddled water.

"I will," he said finally. "You'll see me for what I am when the frost falls someday. The killing frost will come. I can't stop it. It takes. I take. Once you understand how deep the ice goes, you'll decide. And I'll obey."

_And there will only be winter._

He had used these words before, in the depths of his dreaming. He was dreaming now, if misery like this could count. He was in such pain, pain he could feel every second of every day, this part of himself he could not bear and could never be free from. 

If there was something Harold understood, it was carrying pain.

"There is no winter that spring does not follow, Mr. Reese. What makes you think I won't give you a second chance when you need one?"

"I've already had my chances."

"Have you? Maybe from your perspective it seems that way. But not from mine. You're still only on your first with me."

"Doesn't matter. I'll use it up and the next one too. All the rope you give me I'll take. Eventually it'll be enough to hang myself with."

Harold's breath caught as if he'd been kicked in the chest. It certainly felt like it.

"I don't ever want to hear you talking like that. I don't want you to hear it yourself, even in your head. Because _then_. You keep asking me, over and over, when? When will I make you leave me? When will I cast you out into the wastes like the irredeemable monster you have been made to believe you are? Well, you are sorely mistaken about both of us if you think I would give up on anyone so dedicated and compassionate without a fight. So stop asking me when I won't give you a second chance. Ask me when I _can't_. Because if you take yourself from me, John, _then_. Then and only then. I wouldn't be able to anymore. That hope would be lost for us both."

"Hope is a lit match, not a fire. It only turns to ash and burns the fingers holding it."

"Unless it's put to tinder. What do we do every day, Mr. Reese, if not hope? Every number the Machine gives us is hope in nine digits. And for each we make the choice to try for that hope of saving a life, to strive for it. Hope is who we are. Hope is who _you_ are."

Finally he turned his head up to meet Harold's eyes. 

"You believe that."

"I know it's true."

Reese did not answer. He looked so weary.

"John, you're exhausted. So am I. Let's get you dry and get you somewhere you can sleep."

He nodded weakly and leaned to begin curling up right there in the shower.

"Wait, no, that's not what I meant, this utterly defeats the concept of getting you dry... John?"

But he wasn't listening anymore. John settled himself down on his side on the damp tile, tucked his arms up into his body and laid his head above Harold's knee. For the first time that night, he was at rest.

Harold leaned back onto the wall behind him, beyond tired. The extraordinary selfless creature at his leg and at his mercy was quiet. Everything was quiet. He rested his hand on John's side, cautious not to startle him, and relaxed the tension that had accumulated in his body over the course of the hours. 

There was a peace to be found in this liminal space between what had happened and what would be remembered. It was as peaceful as a shower floor could be. Once he was still enough, Harold noticed he could just feel John's fractured heart reverberating through him at the top of each of his breaths. 

They were alive for one more day at least. 

It was all he could ever ask.

A twinge shot through the nerve in his hip. Another half an hour trapped in this position on hard industrial bathroom tile and he would have as much luck getting up again as John did earlier. He shook him gently.

"Mr. Reese?"

He didn't expect an answer and indeed didn't get one. Stretching, he managed to snag a towel down with his fingertips from the wall rack. He folded it up and lifted John's head in his hand as carefully as he could to slide his leg out of the way. Reese was only the barest amount conscious by then, grunting softly as he was transitioned to the makeshift pillow. 

Looking at him curled and vulnerable on the floor, Harold ached. He ached low in his neck, down in his back, and deep in his soul. He dug through the soaked rags that had been his suit jacket and fished out the cellphone still inside the pocket. Not surprisingly, it survived the deluge unscathed. Electronics were harder to kill all the time. People were just as fragile as they had ever been.

Beyond the flash of his ravaged hair he couldn't avoid, Harold tried not to catch himself in the mirror when he exchanged the clothes slowly drying to his skin for an old t-shirt and drawstring shorts he kept in the library for exercise. The best he could do for John was to cover him with a blanket. The edges soaked up the last few drops of water in the shower.

When Reese finally stirred again, the sun was starting to lighten the sky through the windows. He was uncomfortable waking up, sore from his time on the floor, and the thin bruised cuts left by his restraints were starting to swell. Slow and groggy but aware, he groaned when he looked down to see his arms peeking out from under the fleece draped over him.

"Finch?" His voice had the slightest hangover slur to it. He searched for him with bleary eyes as he pushed himself up on his elbows. "Harold? Where are you?"

"Here, Mr. Reese. Take it slowly. And before you ask, I'm fine. I'm not the one waking up on the floor."

He crouched beside him and checked him over. John was worse for wear certainly, but his eyes were clear and bright. And worried.

He looked around as Harold helped him up to vertical. "We're... in the bathroom?"

"You became dangerously overheated and we had to resort to some unorthodox emergency solutions. Do you not remember any of that?"

"Not particularly. I remember listening to the Velvet Underground. And seeing... a forest? A cloud of birds? I don't know, there's not much that makes any sense." John rubbed at his head, clearly throbbing even worse than his arms.

So the slate was wiped clean. John had lost every memory of their long night, while Harold would retain every detail in crystal clarity for as long as he lived. Was it a blessing or a curse? For which of them? As with so much in their life together, it was both simultaneously.

"How did I get out of the chair? There's no way I could have broken those ties on my own, but obviously I tried like hell. And you let me out _after_ that?" 

"Don't. You were burning up. I'm not arguing with you about this twice."

"Jesus, you did. I should have known you wouldn't listen. What did I do then? Did I hurt you? Harold, tell me the truth."

The truth was he had hurt Harold and moved him and affected him in a thousand ways between those extremes. Hurting him was what he was doing at that very moment, looking at him like that, so afraid. For Harold. Of losing him. Of being lost again. They were all the same fear in the end. John was afraid of himself. 

But that was not what he was asking, and Harold did not have to lie.

"Of course you didn't, Mr. Reese. I told you before, you wouldn't. You won't." 

This would not convince him. There was no possibility John was going to believe in his own decency today. Harold knew that without doubt, but it didn't stop him from trying. It wouldn't stop him in the future. 

Because one of these times, perhaps it would work. Reese would see in himself even part of what Harold had seen from the beginning and only became more certain of each day. 

John would know his own heart too. He could even come to trust it.

Someday. 

Perhaps.

There was always hope.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! It really does mean a lot to me that you took time out of your day for a story of mine. Comments are always greatly appreciated. <3


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